Without a shadow of a doubt, my most shameful night was in London about 6 years ago. A friend of mine had just been through a particularly traumatic break-up with his girlfriend and needed to be brought back into circulation.
There used to be a club on Wardour St called The Wag, and it was perfect for things like this. Lots of booze, lots of girls and just the right atmosphere to make it a rich furrow to plough, especially on a school night.
The trouble with this friend sadly, was that he was very shy at the best of times. Having just had his heart torn out and stamped on by the woman he thought he was set to marry, he was in no state to approach girls.
"Look mate," I said kindly, "leave it to me. See those two girls over there? The fit one and the fat one? Just you follow me."
Why is it always like that? A fit one and a fat one? If you're hunting for treasure there's always a monster to contend with. The plan, of course, was that I would take the larger quarry out of the equation, freeing up the fit one for my mate.
Off I trotted, charming as you like, and very soon I was invited to sit down. I waved my mate in from the bar and we were off.
This spare girl was big. Not big as, 'you could do with laying off the chips', but big as in, she had her own gravitational pull. Small objects, lipsticks and cigarette lighters had settled into a gentle orbit around her arse. That kind of big.
But I'm a true friend, so I was utterly charming to her. For the first hour I thought my mate had cracked it. He was talking to this divine woman with confidence and style, he even made her laugh. I got another round of drinks. And another. And...well, you know how these things go.
Before the night was out, the heartbroken lad had started talking about his ex and how they were supposed to get married and have kids. The delectable target cocked her head to one side and told him that he was very sweet. Basically, it was going nowhere. Unfortunately by this point, I was very, very drunk.
I don't really remember getting the taxi, or where my friend went. One thing I do remember though, one blinding moment of clarity from much later on, was groggily looking up and spotting that sizeable beast bouncing up and down upon my loins.
Imagine, if you will, the sight of a walrus trying to climb on to an ironing board and you'd be pretty much there.
I showered so much the next morning, but I didn't stop feeling dirty until about two years later.
